This was not a pre-meditated murder

Of syllables, of nouns.

This was not as articulate as I

Wish it could be.

This was not plotted, each point so precise

So as to position me perfectly for the ploy.

No, I didn’t think before I put the pen to the paper.

Gun fire, round after round of ammunition

(of hatred, like shrapnel, flying through my fingers)

Battered the pages with wounds that

Bled so easily into fleeting fingers.

This was not a pre-meditated murder

Of adjectives, of mood.

No, it was just murder.

Murder born anew.